


The Thirty Times They Tried To Scream

by Unoriginality



Series: Pandora's Universe [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: 30screams, Multi, Multiple Points of View, interconnected One shots, themed sets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 20:54:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9565994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unoriginality/pseuds/Unoriginality
Summary: 30 stories of the fear that followed the release of Pandora's evils.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Closer looks at events that cover from beginning to end of the series. (And as of right now, the end's a looooong way from sight.)
> 
> Not posted in order, chronological or written. I'm sharing the themes for anyone who wants to use them for their own stuff. Each theme has two options. Each piece will be labeled according to which theme I chose to use.

1: A Bloody Knife | Echo  
2: Trapped | In an Elevator  
3: Cemetery | Gone Wrong  
4: Rainy Night | Protection  
5: Haunted | Changes  
6: Broken Mirror | Midnight  
7: A Confession | Cursed  
8: Carnival | Stolen  
9: The Shower | Cruelty  
10: Nightmares | All a Game  
11: Followed | Time's Up  
12: Sunset | Coat of Arms  
13: Pricked | Shots  
14: Broken Heart | Diseased  
15: Revenge | Awakening  
16: The Flood | "Go Back to Sleep"  
17: Rage | Pendant  
18: Under the Moon | Music Box  
19: The Mask | Cavern  
20: Chains | Stranded  
21: Whispers | Hopeless  
22: Something Shattered | Commotion  
23: Nightly Creatures | Loyalty  
24: Shadows | Mist  
25: In the Woods | Tablets  
26: Crime | Vulgarity  
27: Singing | The Hermit  
28: Wounds | The Emperor  
29: Shame | Wheel of Fortune  
30: Death | Roll Credits 


	2. 11 - "Time's Up"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You get one minute."

_it won't cost much_   
_just your voice_   
_you poor unfortunate soul_   
_it's sad, but true_   
_if you want to cross a bridge, my sweet_   
_**you've got to pay the toll**_   
-The Little Mermaid

"You get one minute."

It was his own hand that was held up at that, displaying a single finger to drive the point home.

One minute. For that arm.

Edward let the icy black hands slide over him, pulling him back into the chaotic inner depths of the Gate, back into that insanity given a face. Colors swirled and melted around him, blurring his vision, spilling over what should've been defined outlines, twisting until it turned around everything in his mind, touched on some other sense that science could never fully prove a person could have.

A cacophony of noise and colors buzzed through his head, images his mind was forced to open to and understand, then file away where he knew it'd take a lifetime of study to ever understand again; he ignored it. He had to. Pushing past the hoards of giggling black forms gathering around him with his one arm and leg, he reached, pressed on towards the light that his heart recognized long before his eyes could.

"Al!"

Each foot was a struggle to gain. The creatures were as intent on hindering him as they were on helping the poor one-legged boy who could only move by bracing himself against their bodies and pushing as hard as he could. They held onto him, slowed him down with their weight.

"Al!"

He had to hurry. He only had a minute, one minute before he lost his brother for good, before his brother was trapped there in that hell. Stretching his arm as far as it would go as he used his leg to kick and push against one of the Gate's creatures, he reached for his brother, fingers brushing the air just centimeters away from that light that nearly blinded him.

"Time's up."

For a fraction of a second, Edward froze, nerves going numb as the Truth's words sank in. A minute already up. No, it couldn't- Al was right _there_ , so close, just another few seconds..!

Ignoring the voice, kicking at the things that tried to drag him back, no longer helping at all, he reached again, screaming for his brother. _Come on, Al, just reach! Please, I'm almost there!_

Cold tendrils wrapped around his throat and yanked him back. He choked and cried, Al's form slipping farther away as the tendrils dragged him away.

"Time's up," the voice repeated again, half-snarled, half-laughed and Edward's throat _burned_ , and he screamed-

 

"Time's up."

Edward jumped, the pencil in his right hand snapping neatly from the sudden pressure as his fists clenched. Around him, the testing council that stayed late, just for him to take the qualification test, were watching, waiting on him to snap out of his waking nightmare.

Ducking his head in embarrassment, he handed his incomplete test in to the officer collecting his paper. As soon as he was dismissed, he hurried out of the room, leaving the broken pencil on the desk.


	3. 6 - Broken Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You disappoint me, Fullmetal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Vietnam-styled war stuff. If you recognize Auman and Cooper, you get a cookie. /roundabout other fandom shoutout
> 
> Explicit rape ahead.

_comin' back from surgery_   
_comin' up on seventeen_   
_some kind of oralplasty_   
_or maybe a lobotomy_   
_comin' back from surgery_   
_comin' up on seventeen_   
_**i don't remember how i looked**_   
_before he got to me_   
-The Vincent Black Shadow

Snow muffled the sounds of the small squad that moved with deliberate care towards the small Drachman village along the Amestrian border. Lieutenant Auman moved down into a crouch, holding up a fist. The rest of the men followed suit, moving down into position behind him, lining the poorly-marked trail they were following.

Sergeant Cooper crept up next to the lieutenant. Words were exchanged, then Cooper moved back over to the waiting men.

Edward huddled down under his thick coat.

"Okay, men, L-T's gettin' worried about how loudly we're moving. We're gonna spread out. If Echo's out there, he'll hear us coming a mile away. Tyler, Elric, you guys cover the right. Holn, Ramon, you two set up a trap a click east of here. The rest of you..." Cooper grinned. "Try to walk quieter. You're sounding like a pack of elephants here."

Someone snorted and flung a small handful of snow at Cooper, the snow too loose to have packed into a snowball properly. Cooper smirked and crept back up to Auman.

Edward glanced at Private Tyler. Tyler gave him a nervous look, then shrugged and motioned with the muzzle of his gun. _Come on, I guess._

With a nod, Edward followed after Tyler, creeping silently close to the ground, hands pressing into snow for balance. Like an animal stalking prey.

Following a blood trail.

The squad hadn't been moving loudly at all. The snow was too soft to crunch, all it did was muffle any noises they _had_ been making. Not even the Drachman forces could've heard them coming.

They were setting up an ambush.

An ambush on an enemy that may or may not be there. It was only suspected that Drachman guerillas were using the little ville as one of their many safe places scattered across the border area, but the Amestrian officers that had the misfortune of being stationed in the area didn't want to take chances.

So Edward and the rest of the squad found themselves on clean up duty. For Edward, it was training, another mission that Archer sent him on to _remind_ him that he was a soldier now. He had to follow orders, no matter what he thought of it.

He thought this mission was shitty.

Tyler motioned to him, pointing down the gully towards still-sleeping village below. Edward nodded, dropping his gun off his shoulder and slowly moving with Tyler down along the edges of the village.

Auman and Cooper moved into the village with the main part of the squad, guns at the ready, moving to the doorways of homes. "All right, everyone up! Get out, get out! Where we can see you!"

Cooper shouted an order to the other men to start searching the buildings. Edward watched as sleepy, confused people stumbled out into the frigid night air in their nightclothes, watched as some of the other men in his squad kept them at gunpoint while the rest searched the homes.

"Sarge, we got a tunne-" His comrade's sentence was cut off as the world suddenly exploded with gunfire.

***

"You disappoint me, Fullmetal."

Edward worked to keep the flinch off his face. Soldiers didn't flinch. They didn't show emotion. Especially not when getting chastised by their superior officer. If they were lucky, that's all the officer would do.

Usually, that's all Lieutenant Colonel Archer did. It was hard to tell though, when he would decide more drastic measures were needed.

Somehow, Edward suspected that his commanding officer would decide more drastic measures were needed. He just hoped that it didn't involve losing his state alchemist certification. Anything but that, anything but losing that last thread of hope for getting his brother back.

Archer turned away from the window that gave a view to nothing but the endless white of the cold, frozen north, the dead brown trees and the occasional hint of green of a conifer. Edward kept his eyes forward, his posture picture-perfect of a soldier. Of a trained officer. Of a weapon for the military.

"Do you realize you got good soldiers killed today, Fullmetal?"

He was aware. It ate at him. But the people in that village... "They were children, sir," he replied, voice cracking and squeaking and barely making it above a whisper. He fought back the urge to cough as the effort scratched his throat.

"So they were," Archer replied matter-of-factly. "Children that were just as armed as their parents. I should think you of all people should realize that children can be just as dangerous as adults."

Images of Nina flashed through Edward's mind. "Sir, we attacked-"

"Silence," Archer snapped, settling in his chair. "I do not tolerate lying, Fullmetal, or perhaps your memory requires a bit of help. They fired upon your squad first, according to the report from Lieutenant Auman."

Edward bit the inside of his lip until it bled. "Yes,sir."

"Are you contesting the reports from the platoon leader?" Archer raised an eyebrow, fixing a cold, steady gaze on Edward.

Bile rose in the back of his throat. He swallowed it down, swallowed down the fear at that look. _Please don't take my certification. Anything but that, please._ "No, sir."

"So you admit you lied to your commanding officer."

A pause. There was no way to answer that- no good way, anyway. "Yes, sir."

The chair behind Archer's chair squeaked in protest to the cold as Archer sat back, arms folded against his chest, fingers steepled thoughtfully. "You disobeyed orders. Your disobedience resulted in the death of good soldiers. And now you have blatantly _lied_ to your commanding officer. Fullmetal, are you aware what kind of consequences that carries?"

More hesitation that Edward mentally scolded himself for before he reluctantly shook his head.

"If you're lucky? You will be stripped of your certification and given a dishonorable discharge." Edward could swear Archer paused like that to give Edward's nerves time to tangle up further on purpose. "At worst, you will find yourself right back in that prison the führer was gracious enough to release you from."

Every muscle in his body went tense with fear at that. _Nonononopleasenotthereagain._ Edward swallowed tightly. "Yes, sir."

Archer sat forward. "I hope you can give me good justification for your actions, or a very good reason to give you yet another chance. You've tried my patience, Fullmetal. It's growing thin."

Any wrong word now could mean the end of his last hope for getting Al back. Edward swallowed down more bile, swallowed down the urge to cough that was getting worse and worse. "Sir, I am a child, but I chose to be here. Those children did not choose for the combatants of both sides to invade their lives. They merely defend."

For a brief moment, Edward thought maybe, just maybe, he would escape with a lesser punishment- delegated to hard labor, something, _anything_ better than losing his certification.

For only a moment.

Archer reached into the top drawer of his desk, pulling out some papers. "Fullmetal," he said, picking up a pen and beginning to fill out the forms. "Do you know how the squad before yours that was patrolling that area was wiped out?"

Edward reluctantly shook his head before answering when he realized Archer was not raising his head to look at him. "No."

"They had passed through that village. They were carrying supplies that they shared with the villagers. An eight-year-old girl told her father that Amestrian soldiers had passed through and were in the area." Archer lifted his head, giving Edward a pointed stare. "The girl's father was a Drachman guerilla."

At least these people had a reason.

His hands shook with the effort to keep himself still, to keep his expression fixed and neutral, to keep from showing any sort of response except an obsequious "yes, sir."

"It's a shame, Fullmetal," Archer set the pen down and folded his hands on the desk. "You held a lot of promise. Unfortunately, you seem to have trouble with the fact that war turns _everyone_ into a soldier. Unfortunate, perhaps, but you would not have been placed under my command to train you were it not true. Since you refuse to accept your duty as a soldier and carry it out fully, I have no choice but to remove that title from you."

 _No. No no no._ He knew better. Archer didn't want to give up on Edward this far into things, and Edward knew it. Orders from Bradley himself that Grand had given Archer the chance to carry out? He knew Archer better than that.

But Edward knew that was countered heavily by the fact that if he never carried through on a threat, Edward would never learn.

Edward knew this game by now.

Almost on cue, Archer sat back. "Unless you have another suggestion, Fullmetal?"

A chance to bargain. Part of Edward nearly wanted to cry with relief. "Lashing, sir?" He could handle pain. He could handle as much pain as Archer wanted to dish out.

Unfortunately, Archer knew that. "I hardly think that would be effective with you, now would it, Fullmetal?"

It took effort to not rub at the scar that had formed nicely above his right eye from the only time that Archer ever personally raised a hand to him. "No, sir," he admitted.

For a long, agonizing minute, Archer was silent, watching Edward, a thoughtful expression on his face, eyes cool and impassive as he studied the boy in front of him whose future he held in his hands so casually. "Come here."

A reflexive urge to gag tugged at Edward's throat muscles and he fought it back, legs and feet moving automatically, taking him around to the side of Archer's desk. His commanding officer's words sounded like Edward was hearing from underwater as he spoke- "obedience should be absolute, Fullmetal," - and then ordered him down onto his knees.

Obedience should be absolute. No matter the order, it should be followed.

Even if the order was merely a test, an inane and unnecessary task carried out to ensure that a soldier understood, remembered his place and would follow his orders faithfully.

The urge to gag rose again and was forcibly restrained, shoved aside with all thought as he waited patiently a moment, waited as Archer's pants were unzipped and his erection was presented. It was almost soft, barely firmed from arousal- there was no carnal pleasure involved for Archer, which was small comfort; it was merely a tool of training.

Edward leaned forward and took Archer's cock into his mouth without word, without question. When Archer's hand tangled in his hair, guiding his mouth and taking complete control of how Edward moved and when, he made no protest. He was a soldier, soldiers did not question, did not disobey.

Soldiers did not lose their certification.

A soldier was the only thing that stood a chance at getting Al back.

His hands braced on the seat of Archer's chair as his head was moved, his mouth and tongue and lips sliding along the length of Archer's cock. His commanding officer grunted slightly but otherwise made no noise, no indication except a sudden tensing when he came and Edward choked and swallowed, kept from retching, kept from even coughing as he was released and sat back.

With effort, he kept his fists from shaking as he waited patiently on his knees for permission to stand and leave.

The ripping of paper drew his attention and he lifted his head as Archer sat back in his seat, pants rezipped as if nothing had changed, nothing had happened, to find Archer tearing the forms he'd been filling out. He realized those forms had been his decommission papers, or something akin to that.

Edward found he was far too numb to be scared by how close he'd come to losing his certification.

Soldiers showed no emotion when on duty. Human weapons even less so.

"Very well, Fullmetal." No relief, no reaction, Edward refused to allow it when Archer finally spoke. "Get up. Report to Sergeant Lièvre in one hour. And do not report to the mess hall at dinner. Report outside to the post."

Hard labor as well. Considering Edward had gotten valuable soldiers killed with his insubordination, it was more than fair. At least he was still alive.

At least he still had his title and rank. And at least he still had a chance at finding his brother someday.

"Now go get cleaned up. You have one hour. Dismissed."

Edward wasted no time saluting and hurrying out of Archer's office before the lieutenant colonel changed his mind. He made a beeline for the washroom. He still stank of blood- it clung to him, to his gloves, to his coat, to his face and hair.

The showers were empty and silent when he stepped into them, the slam of the door echoing like a shot. His guts twisted up, threatened, and he barely had time to make a dive for a toilet before his stomach emptied itself, acid burning at his scratched throat until tears stung at his eyes.

As he heaved and coughed, he didn't notice he'd started to sob and choke on the tears, his breath shuddering and every muscle shaking from the release of the adrenaline as the fear slowly leeched out of his system.

After what felt like forever, his body relaxed, numbed itself down as he sat back, leaning against the stall for support. He gathered his strength, forced his muscles to respond and got up, stripped and stepped into a shower stall. He showered quickly, ignoring the way the water was red as blood rinsed out of his hair and off his face.

A small transmutation cleaned and dried his clothing and he redressed, pulling on his black turtleneck and pants. That wretched uniform jacket came next. His gloves were shoved into his pockets. He stopped at the mirror to make take assessment of any injuries now that he was clean, to make sure he was presentable, or if he should report to the infirmary before finding Sergeant Lièvre.

Fullmetal stared back at him, silent, cold. The blood was washed off but Edward could still see it. There were scratches and scrapes on him, but nothing that needed attention, except to keep them clean.

His footsteps echoed sharply against the bathroom walls as he walked up to his reflection. The single clap banged in the dead silence of the room, and alchemical energy snapped and snarled, and glass whined in protest as it melted and twisted around his hand.

What stood in front of him then looked like some sort of horrific creature from a funhouse.

There. Much better.

Fullmetal stood a moment longer, then turned and walked out.


	4. 14 - Diseased

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ernst sighed, warring between his training as a soldier, his rational good sense, and his own sense of duty as a doctor. The debate was brief, of course, because Ernst was a doctor first, a soldier second, and he'd made no secret when he signed on for this crazy parade that was how it was going to be.
> 
> Of course, arguing with the lieutenant colonel often felt like arguing with a brick wall. Only the brick wall listened better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remington is heavily based on Charles Winchester III from MASH. Because goddamnit, that man is funny.

Ernst Remington the Third considered himself a man of great patience and character, all considered. Patience was more than a virtue in the job he took, sewing people up and occasionally performing so-called 'meatball' surgeries as part of cleaning up the military's messes made it more of a necessity. He did not argue the questionable 'morality' of war, and he accepted the two rules of being a military doctor- that sometimes young men die, and that no doctor in the world could change that. He performed his duty admirably and faithfully. 

However, this latest change in the tiny supply station near the Drachman border was testing all of his boundaries.

After all, a 'young man' was not quite the same thing as a 'young boy'. A young man served as a soldier. A young boy should be home, playing cops and robbers or some other such silly childhood game with his friends. Not defending a military base alongside grown men, many of whom were at least ten years his senior. A young boy did not belong in a place where the military allowed- or rather, turned a blind eye to- corporal punishment. A young boy did not belong in his medical unit with lash wounds on his back, and a young boy had no business turning cold so young.

"I had hoped, Edward," Ernst said idly as he once again worked on stitching a gash on the young boy's face, "that I would not need to see you so frequently. Every time I do, I wonder how much longer that luck of yours is going to last."

Edward no longer squeezed his eyes shut in the presence of needles. He wouldn't look at them still, but he'd slowly begun to learn to mask emotions, putting himself on the path of becoming the grotesque image of the 'perfect soldier'. Archer was doing his job, whatever it was he considered his job to be, remarkably well.

The boy answered with a shrug, otherwise remaining still while Ernst stitched a thin but deep gash on the boy's left cheek. Ernst wasn't surprised. The boy avoided talking whenever he could, since that unholy madman running the place insisted on prohibiting Edward's sign language in as many situations as possible. Ernst sighed. "I don't suppose you would tell me what caused this one, hm?" 

Edward hesitated a moment, then lifted a hand to sign. _"Spring bounced back on me while I was reassembling my sidearm."_

"Ah, yes, well, that stings a bit. I recommend you not let that happen in the future," Ernst told him, somewhat dry-toned. Edward gave him a bit of a tired look, but didn't answer. Ernst wasn't surprised by this fact, and let it go, focusing on finishing his work. Gratefully, the wound wasn't terribly large, just deep, and a few stitches finished it off. "There, done. Now I'll clean the area one last time, and before you go, I'd like to have a look at your ports and your throat, if I may. Just a routine check-up, but since I have you here at the moment, we may as well be efficient about things, yes?"

Edward nodded, and once Ernst had cleaned the area around the stitches on his face again, the boy quickly stripped out of his uniform jacket and pants, and the black turtleneck he still wore under the uniform, exposing the flesh around his two automail ports to investigation. Quickly, efficiently, without question or hesitation. Good god. It seemed like everything he did had the proper behavior of a soldier drilled into it.

Ernst held a great, heaping amount of detestation and loathing for the station's commanding officer.

Of course, he didn't comment on it- he didn't care to do anything that would confuse the boy more and potentially get him into more trouble -he simply inspected the ports for inflammation or torn tissue. It checked out healthy, of course. Ernst had little doubt it would, with the automail surgeon the boy said he'd had. Pinako Rockbell was known as the best for a reason.

"All right, put your clothes back on," he instructed. "Then we'll take a look at that throat of yours." Just as quickly as he'd stripped, Edward had his clothes back on and was settled back up on the exam table. Ernst didn't have to tell him to open his mouth, he simply did it, holding his tongue down out of the way.

A cursory inspection showed far more irritation than Ernst was comfortable with. Edward was far more susceptible to infection with that injury, and the cold did little to help his immune system's ability to fight off infection. Ernst frowned, setting aside the flashlight. "All right, you're cleared. You'd best report back to that carnival's shooting gallery."

Edward saluted, then grabbed his coat and slipped it on before leaving to return to the range. Ernst sighed, warring between his training as a soldier, his rational good sense, and his own sense of duty as a doctor. The debate was brief, of course, because Ernst was a doctor first, a soldier second, and he'd made no secret when he signed on for this crazy parade that was how it was going to be.

Of course, arguing with the lieutenant colonel often felt like arguing with a brick wall. Only the brick wall listened better.

The lieutenant colonel made him wait when he knocked on his door, a rather rudely long time, actually, before he finally said "Enter." Remington entered and saluted, although he loathed giving such a gesture of respect to this man. Archer returned the gesture. "What is it you need, Doctor?"

"Besides those medicines I keep requisitioning?" he asked, tone drier than thirty-year-old scotch.

Archer gave him an impatient look. "Yes, Doctor, besides that. I put in the forms, we can only wait for North Headquarters to respond."

Remington sighed. "I'm aware. Actually, I'm here to request three days of medical leave for one of my patients."

"Oh?" Archer shuffled papers idly, apparently only half-paying attention.

"Yes, for Edward Elric." That had Archer's full attention. Remington continued before the bastard could protest. "His throat is showing signs of infection. I'm not surprised by this; I keep warning you about him using his voice."

Archer folded his hands on the desk, giving Remington a cold, level look. "I do not push him past his limits, Doctor."

Remington would disagree, but he let it go. "Perhaps not, but that doesn't change the fact that his throat is irritated enough that if he doesn't give it a rest for a few days, I will likely be seeing him for an infection within the week. Now, an infection could have him out for a week or more. I'm requesting just a small handful of days."

The logic couldn't escape even one as stubborn as a mule as Archer, who reluctantly conceded to allowing Edward the days off the doctor requested. Remington counted it as a victory. "I promise, Lieutenant Colonel, I'll have him back to duty as quickly as possible."

"See that you do," Archer warned, signing off on the requested medical leave.

***

Edward awoke in a fevered haze. Blankets tangled around him and stuck to his skin, cold and clammy from sweat and the cold northern air. The wind outside howled with a snow storm, rising in pitch with the shrieking along his nerves and in the synapses forced to wake from the light stages of REM sleep. He gasped for air, kicked and struggled against the blankets until he finally fell off the bed with a thud.

The shock of the frigid air against his sweat-soaked and flushed skin hit him like a wall, jarring into the lucid dream still fighting for control of his consciousness. The blankets felt smooth and cold and looked black, then once again were clammy and a dull white of military issue. He kicked his legs free, the cloth catching on something on his automail ankle and tearing. He struggled to his feet, stumbled and smacked against the wall soundly.

Every muscle in his body shuddered with the struggle to not get sick, shivered from the cold air the closed window did nothing to stop, with a bone-deep terror and fatigue as he straightened, reaching for the nightstand. Without thinking, his hands fumbled around for the chalk he kept around despite his lack of need for it, his thoughts swirling dizzyingly behind his eyes. The wall became those doors from his nightmares, black hands and vicious eyes staring and reaching and laughing; he choked, forced his eyes back open, and it became a wall again.

With his arms braced against the wall, he pushed himself to his feet, shivering and struggling to breathe without the cold air scraping old scar tissue raw. Sweat made his arm slide against the wall, causing his forehead to connect dully. He blinked blearily, then jerked away at the phantom feel of leather straps biting into his flesh wrist. A choked and hollow wheezing sound forced through his throat as he clawed frantically at his wrist with dull metal fingers. His thoughts froze in panic as the fingers failed to find anything to catch hold of and the sharp response from his nerves in his skin continued.

His back muscles spasmed in anticipation of the lash, while his throat constricted and his gag reflex fought against a weight pressing against the back of his throat.

"One minute."

With a terrified, broken attempt at a scream, he forced his eyes open again, staring blankly at the marked walls in front of him, at the transmutation circles that could've only been drawn by a madman, circles that sprawled and twisted and wobbled from shaking hands. A fevered attempt at writing memories in the only language he could hide from the demons in his dreams

There were no straps on his wrists, no lash striking his back, nothing forced in his mouth, no gunshots or cold snow striking his face, no black hands or laughing eyes, or horrible staticky voices telling him his life was over in one minute. Not even the echo of Al's voice screaming his name. The only thing in the room was his own ragged breathing and racing heart and blurred vision.

Every bit of him shaking, Edward dropped the chalk and pressed his hands together, a quick transmutation removing the traces of the nonsense circles from the wall before someone decided he was in trouble for vandalizing military property.

His stomach heaved, threatened, and he shuddered at the taste of bile, pushed himself to his feet and stumbled to the door. His hands and arms moved on their own, opening the door as his head swam. His weight spilled out onto the hallway floor, his automail making a clanging thunk as it struck the tiles. Somewhere distantly, he heard voices right before unconsciousness pulled him back under.

***

It had been two hours since Edward had been brought into the infirmary, coughing and running a fever upwards of a hundred and two. Two hours during which time Doctor Ernst Remington the Third had fought to bring the fever down, fought to calm the coughing and irritation that tore at the boy's injured throat. He'd pumped the boy so full of antibiotics, he almost worried he'd gone too far with it.

Finally, the boy was resting, sleeping in one of the quarantine rooms, and Ernst could stop a moment to breathe.

_Children get sick all the time._  
_But damned if I did not warn that man._

Now that the adrenaline-fueled fear had settled, the anger came. He'd warned Archer about the danger to Edward's health. And he'd been all but ignored, and quite frankly, he did not appreciate it. Perhaps it was well past time to tell the station's commanding officer exactly what he thought of him, risks to his own rank be damned. He was a major, he wasn't terribly outranked, and he had his own friends in Central that he should have long ago contacted over this. Why he hadn't yet was beyond his ability to contemplate.

To Ernst's surprise, the lieutenant colonel in question had been waiting- not particularly patiently, but waiting, nonetheless- outside of the infirmary for a status report on his 'star pupil.'

_"Star pupil" my foot._  
_The boy is this man's favorite new toy._  
_One would think the novelty would have worn off by now._  
_Simpletons rarely hold onto their toys so long._

"I'd like a status report, Doctor," Archer said as soon as Ernst stepped out of the infirmary.

He bit back the urge to say something that would be too out of line. "He has an infection. His fever spiked in response. I've got his fever down, but I want him in the infirmary, resting, for at least a week. And if I may, Lieutenant Colonel-"

"You may not," Archer interrupted. "What you may do is tend to your patient. I do not want to hear from him until he is fully healthy again."

Ernst bit the inside of his lip for a moment. "I'm amazed you don't want him back in the field as sooner than that, with all due respect, _sir_ ," he said, with utterly no respect. He was quite fed up with this man and his attitude, and damn be the costs. "I had warned you about the use of his voice. He was not to use anything but his field sign as much as possible. Now-" he held up a hand, cutting off the commanding officer, entirely at his own peril and he was well aware of that, "-I suggest you find a position for him that allows use of that sign language and minimizes his use of his voice, or I shall have to file a report to Central and have him transferred."

Regardless of where Archer's orders came from, medical orders could override them. And Archer knew it. He gave Ernst a vicious look. "I see. Well, then I will make sure he is given a job that will make good use of field sign. Do be certain to inform me when he is well again, Doctor, so I can fill out the forms for his deployment to a firebase." With that, Archer turned and walked away, leaving Ernst standing there in stupefied horror.

A twelve-year-old boy. At a firebase.

Dear god, what had he done?


	5. 1 -  Bloody Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted food. Then I heard leather on skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to try for an image format. I hope this worked out okay.

  
  



	6. 2 - Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The blank sheet in front of him mockingly reminded him what he could not do.

Edward stared at the paper in front of him. Scattered notes and alchemy texts covered the desk he sat at, scrawled on and ear-marked. Complex arrays and formulas and equations were scribbled down as testimony to what the mind of the young state alchemist was capable of. 

The blank sheet in front of him mockingly reminded him what he could not do.

It'd been two years since he left Rizenbul. He hadn't written a single letter that whole time. Lack of opportunity stopped him the first seven months; he hadn't been allowed contact with the outside world while he was up in Acheron. He had no real excuse after that, though.

The tip of his pen hovered just over the paper, unmoving.

He had no idea what to write.

What could he _say_? So much had happened, but he wasn't about to tell them any of _that_. There was nothing he could say about his research, either. He was no closer to getting Al back than the day he left. There was no way he'd say as much to them.

His entire world had been reduced to just that- getting his brother back and trying to outrun the nightmares.

And nobody knew about any of it. And he couldn't tell any of them.

Everytime he tried to write home, Edward realized all over again that he'd become trapped by his own silence.


	7. 29 - Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a natural chemical reaction. A process of the body on level with the need to eat, or sleep, or rid oneself of wastes. One of the basic needs of the human body.
> 
> Simple chemistry.
> 
> It still made him sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic sexual content. No, not incest, just fucked up.

It was a natural chemical reaction. A process of the body on level with the need to eat, or sleep, or rid oneself of wastes. One of the basic needs of the human body. 

Edward understood that. He was more familiar with the peculiarities of the female body from his studies in his attempt to recreate his mother than he was his own male body, but he still understood that. It was basic. It was universal. Everyone needed that release the same.

Simple chemistry.

It still made him sick.

He tried to ignore his body's pleading as long as he could, refused to acknowledge it. He'd had more experience than he cared for with male sexuality. He wanted nothing to do with it. He knew more intimately that he had right to where the nerves were, what it felt and tasted like.

He wanted to leave that nightmare with the rest of them.

It wasn't until he'd find his hand drifting down across his abdomen as he hunched over his work of its own volition, wasn't until his thoughts would not focus on the arrays and equations or even something as simple and routine as cleaning his gun, until his thoughts had gone the way of distraction, drifted to fantasies that made him want to retch that he'd give in.

Anything to make the thoughts go away.

Anything to make the memories and the way his body responded and the _images_ his mind came up with go _away_.

With a frustrated snarl the pencil snapped in his fist and he slammed it down, yanked off his coat and threw it against his suitcase in the corner. The suitcase wobbled and fell onto its side with a thump and he settled on the bed, kicking off his boots and struggling out of his pants, cursing and growling under his breath, like an animal fighting with an unwanted leash around its neck.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, kept biting, working open the sore that had long-since developed there as his flesh hand worked free his aching erection, shoving aside garments that were already uncomfortable from the pre-come that had gathered at the head.

Sex was a punishment. It was control, a control he didn't have over himself and he closed his eyes against the images and memories and fought back the thoughts and urge to see someone else suffer as he had, the need to take control back, and oh god, he hated himself, chewed the sore in his mouth until his thoughts had to focus on that more than the fire shooting up his nerves from his groin.

Pain never tamed his thoughts for long. His body was too accustomed to that, it was like a familiar old friend, a hateful lover that was never far, that his body embraced as much as it rejected it.

It never kept the thoughts away.

In fact, it just made them worse. His body fed on the flood of endorphins that mixed with the hormones and took his thoughts and reactions farther and farther away from his grasp until he could feel the frayed threads in his mind starting to snap, strained to the breaking point.

There was only one thing that could change the course of his thoughts, one thing and he hated himself for it every time he turned to it, clung to it and the guilt that came with it like a lifeline from the darkness and anger that he normally embraced as a protective cloak from the fear.

"Al-!"

His hatred and anger turned inward, attacked himself viciously as he let the desperate need to have his brother back pull his mind away from what he was doing and the twisted fantasies that it dredged up.

Guilty as charged. Convicted and sentenced.

His brother's name scraped at his throat and his broken voice as he came, muscles taut and tense and his whole body shuddering and his breath coming in strangled gasps. Silence fell over the room, fell over his mind in that brief lull as the chemicals slowly receded, released their grip on him.

He wanted to scream. Of all the releases a man could want, that was the one he was denied.


	8. 17 - Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward had learned very well how to hate.

_Passion. It lies in all of us, sleeping, waiting. And though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir, open its jaws, and howl. It speaks to us, guides us. Passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments: the joy of love, the clarity of hatred, and the ecstasy of grief._   
-Angelus; Buffy the Vampire Slayer

He'd never felt anything so exhilarating. So addicting. It provided a release, a freedom he had forgotten the taste of, trapped up north in the frozen snow, training until his hand was blistered, bleeding and cracked and chapped, until he couldn't remember what it was like to breathe without seeing the condensation from his breath in the air, until his brain had shut down all thought processes in the cruel winter.

It bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, white hot and powerful, and it spilled over in his mind, like a poison that seeped into his blood and spread throughout his body. It _warmed_ him, made him _feel_ again, made him _live_. It pushed him on, it made his feet move forward again, trudging through snow that no longer bothered him, no longer slowed him down.

His commanding officer was very good, he would decide later, looking at it objectively. He knew how to whittle away society's morals and get down to the animalistic part of man, and then hone it into a weapon for the military to use. That was his job.

He did a very very good job.

Edward had learned very well how to hate.

Of course, the man never figured that it could be directed at the military. That Edward would develop a Pavlovian reaction to the sight of the uniform until even the softest hand could be met with hostility, wariness, mistrust.

It always crept just beneath the surface, that beautiful, vicious drug, that black rage that colored his vision, that burned both hot and cold, that sent people looking the other way and trying to get out of his path. A quiet companion that lurked at the back of his mind, a welcome distraction from the nightmares, from the guilt and the horror that was never far behind him.

It became almost a security blanket, a safety net that caught him when his guilt would rise in his chest and choke him, when he'd hear his brother's screams again, feel those black hands, see those dead eyes that stared and laughed and the feel of his brother's fingers brushing against his before he disappeared. His anger would find a target and flare up, lash out and wrap him up in its cruel embrace, punishing others for sins that were as much his as they were theirs.

Divine retribution. Let them pay the price that he had.

The dead can never come back to life. Any who failed to heed that warning were punished. Any who violated what little moral code Edward had left to him were judged.

People were made to fear the name Fullmetal.

He may have failed his brother, may have failed Nina. But his anger ensured that he didn't fail anyone else. His anger kept him from stopping, from giving up.

His anger had become his own prison.


	9. 27 - Singing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, his brother had been good at singing.
> 
> Edward didn't sing anymore.

Once upon a time, his brother had been good at singing. 

Edward didn't sing anymore.

Over the years, in those little glimpses, brief moments when Edward's thoughts were so keenly focused on his brother, on the other half of his soul still trapped in the Gate, Alphonse was able to see and hear his brother. He tried to talk to him, to comfort him, to let him know he was still alive, it was okay, he didn't need to hurt like that.

It broke Alphonse's heart, listening to Edward's fears as they'd bubble to the surface, listening to the tattered remains of his brother's once beautiful voice as he whispered quiet confessions, begging for forgiveness from someone he was convinced couldn't hear him. 

If Alphonse could, he'd give his own voice to his brother. He'd agree to give up whatever he might have left of himself to give Edward his voice back. He wanted to hear his brother laugh again. Hear him argue with someone over some scientific theory that was way beyond what someone his age should've been able to comprehend.

He wanted to hear his brother sing him to sleep again, like he did after their mother was no longer there to do it herself.

Truth was a cruel master, though, and Alphonse couldn't do anything from where he was but listen to the hoarse whisper that was all that was left of Edward's voice, and cry for his brother.


	10. 20 - Stranded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three Drachman guerrillas that led the group were followed by two more, dragging a figure in the dark blues of the Amestrian cold weather gear. The Amestrian was missing his goggles and balaclava, displaying a number of bruises and a bloodied lip. Despite the swelling from the injuries, Edward recognized him as Jonathan Cubbins, a man that was on his patrol.
> 
> Sweat started to bead on the back of Edward's neck. What happened to the rest of the patrol? Where were they when Cubbins got caught? Far away, or too close?
> 
> And how long would it be before Edward could safely leave?

O'Riley's death had made him careless. 

That was all he could think, hunched under the branches of a conifer tree. The branches hung heavy over him, snow dragging them down and creating a small lean-to for him to hide in. The world past them was pitch black, and the overwhelming silence made the creak and groan of the wood under the weight of the snow sound like a storm in his ears. He had no idea how long he'd been there, or where his patrol might've gone without him. Or if they'd come back. There were so many crisscrossing tracks from their men and Drachman guerrillas and animals, that there was no way of figuring out the way back. At least not in the dark, not until there was at a little sunlight to see with.

Edward huddled down under the layers of his uniform, feeling colder than he should past all that material. His bones ached where steel rods had been screwed in, and his muscles were so tense from fear that they hurt. His toes felt numb, and it took everything in him to keep his teeth from chattering under the balaclava over his face. His goggles were smeared from the tears he was trying desperately to stop. He was lost, he was alone, he was cold, and he could be in danger. And not just from the guerrillas, nature had her own forces out and about.

The image of Lance and Scott's half-eaten intestines on the forest floor snuck up behind his eyes and he shuddered, wrapping his arms around his knees. The position was awkward with his M-1 on his lap. He wouldn't let it stray from his person. He saw to that.

But that was the only lesson he seemed to have learned from the attack that'd left the second lieutenant dead. Not paying attention had gotten O'Riley killed. And not paying attention had gotten Edward separated from his fellows on the patrol. McLaughlin had been in the group, but he'd been on point, and Edward had lagged in the back, until the darkness had swallowed the others whole.

He should've been paying attention.

Edward squirmed as an itch traveled along his lower back. Even if he weren't worried about drawing attention of something with noise, with the layers of cold weather military gear, there was no way he could get to that. He huffed before he could help himself, the warmth of his breath wetting the lower parts of the weave on his balaclava. As quietly as possible, still wiggling a bit to try to ease that itch, he lowered the face mask and rubbed his lips dry.

From somewhere off to his left, snow began to crunch underfoot of something. He went stone still, barely even breathing, straining his hearing to determine if it was human or animal coming his way. If animal, he'd have to risk his alchemy being seen and put up a wall around him. If human, how many and who.

 _Please be my patrol,_ he thought. He kept quiet in case it wasn't, but leaned forward a bit to get a better look past the snow and branches.

The footsteps turned out to be human in origin, but the light-colored bulk of clothing on them said they were Drachman. The Amestrian cold weather uniform was dark. Edward shrank back down against the tree trunk as much as possible. He silently begged for them to not see him.

The three Drachman guerrillas that led the group were followed by two more, dragging a figure in the dark blues of the Amestrian cold weather gear. The Amestrian was missing his goggles and balaclava, displaying a number of bruises and a bloodied lip. Despite the swelling from the injuries, Edward recognized him as Jonathan Cubbins, a man that was on his patrol.

Sweat started to bead on the back of Edward's neck. What happened to the rest of the patrol? Where were they when Cubbins got caught? Far away, or too close?

And how long would it be before Edward could safely leave?

Edward could barely breathe, watching in horror as the Drachmans shoved Cubbins up against a tree trunk. One of the men dropped a pack he was carrying onto the ground and pulled out a length of barbed wire.

_Oh please no, please no._

Lance and Scott flashed through Edward's mind again. He put a hand over his mouth to keep himself silent. His first inclination was to try to save his patrol mate, but he couldn't risk his life on just one man. Not when Al still needed him. Compared to Al, Cubbins was a nobody to Edward.

So instead, he held as still as possible, watching the Drachmans wrap the wire around Cubbins's wrists, then around the tree, securing him with his arms spread. Cubbins began to scream and struggle, cries for mercy falling from his swollen lips.

Mercy wasn't something the guerrillas had for Amestrian soldiers.

Cubbins's winter clothes were sliced down to expose his bare skin to the cold. More cries. Large spikes were retrieved from the Drachman's bag and, one at a time, driven into Cubbins's hands, into the tree. In case someone got the idea to try to rescue him. Like so many invading soldiers had before, at the hands of the guerrillas defending their homeland.

Cries turned to screams.

Edward nearly lost his ability to keep quiet when a curved knife was pulled out, the sharp tip pulled across Cubbins's chest, against the curve of the blade. Blood spilled. Edward wanted to sob, drown out Cubbins's pain, drown out the noise and the smell and the cold and he wanted to go _home_ , not be _there_.

But he couldn't close his eyes, no matter how much he wanted to shut reality out. It was like staring at a trainwreck, unable to look away, no matter how horrific.

So he watched as Jonathan Cubbins was torn open until his rib cage was visible. He watched when a string of small explosives were woven through Jonathan Cubbins's ribs. He watched as the long fuse was lit and the Drachmans took off at full speed.

He watched and listened as Jonathan Cubbins screamed for help, hands nailed to a tree, barbed wire around his wrists, and explosives tucked neatly in around his organs.

And he watched as Jonathan Cubbins exploded.

Blood splattered against the snow of the tree branches in front of Edward, soaked through until the thin layer of snow at his feet dripped red, and shot through the branches and onto Edward's face.

His breath congealed in his throat as thick red tissue slid down over his tear-smeared goggles. He was certain his heart stopped beating when he could taste the blood through his balaclava. His thoughts numbed into nothingness.

It was the sound of the tree Cubbins had been nailed to cracking and splintering that snapped him out of the cold place he disappeared to. The tree leaned heavily backwards, and no matter how likely it was or wasn't, Edward didn't want to take the chance that it'd fall and the shattering trunk would throw shrapnel in his direction.

He decided to run.

With his goggles almost impossible to see through, Edward scrambled out from under the conifer tree, his M-1 strapped over his shoulder. Fear nipped at his heels. Terror became his best friend when he heard voices yelling in Drachman behind him. He tore down his balaclava to get the wet blood out of his mouth, and slid his goggles up under his parka's hood. He couldn't see anything in the dark, the goggles only made it worse.

His breath condensed into a thick fog in front of him, sliding back across his face into streaks of water that froze his skin. The only thing he could hear was the sounds of the men behind him, the sounds of the wolves drawn to the smell of Cubbins's blood- blood all over Edward. His heartbeat pounded loudly in his ears.

Another thunder crack of an explosion sang out in the dark and something hard hit the front of his automail leg and jerked him off his feet. The snow was an unforgiving fist of ice that he fell face first onto. It knocked the wind out of him.

"It's Eddie!" McLaughlin's voice yelled.

Edward wanted to cry with relief.

Strong hands were wrapping around his arms before he could fully get himself up off the ground and hefted him upwards. "I gotcha, Eddie," McLaughlin said, and half-dragged Edward back towards the others.

The sound of the Drachmans still filled the air around them, making Edward's vision swim. "Cubbins-"

"I can guess," McLaughlin said. He pulled Edward into a spot that the others on their patrol had circled around, keeping him locked in with them. "We got it. We're not gonna leave you this time."

Edward didn't believe that. O'Riley had made him careless. This ensured he would never be again. They hadn't come for him, he got out himself. They'd leave him again if he wasn't careful.

Nobody came for him in Acheron. Nobody came for him in Drachma.

Edward learned that eventually, he'd always find himself abandoned.


	11. 7 - A Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't believe in you."
> 
> The priests had retreated for nightly meal. Rose was with them. The congregation had scattered back to their homes for dinner. Only an altar boy remained, asleep in one of the confessionals.
> 
> Behind the altar, Leto's statue looked down at the boy, unmoved by the hateful confession.

"I don't believe in you." 

The priests had retreated for nightly meal. Rose was with them. The congregation had scattered back to their homes for dinner. Only an altar boy remained, asleep in one of the confessionals.

Behind the altar, Leto's statue looked down at the boy, unmoved by the hateful confession.

"There is no god," Edward continued in his cracked and broken voice from his place on the front pew. "You can't bring back the dead, either."

Leto had no answer, of course. Lifeless statues never did. Gods never did. And Truth offered only cruel mocking.

"I've seen the Truth." Edward's hoarse whispering scraped at this throat and he doubled over with a coughing fit. Too much sand and dust in the city. Too much talking. Edward glared at the false god defiantly. He could swear he saw Truth smiling back at him.

Too many memories and hurts.

He matched the smile on Truth's face, lips curling back over his teeth, more a snarl than a smile. "I'm going to beat you," he hissed. "You haven't won yet, you know."

He heard laughter. He ignored it.

"Because I'm better than you." Edward got to his feet and stalked towards the altar. "So what's the punishment for saying that?"

Leto continued to be silent, but he heard the laughter all the same. "I've almost got the Stone. Then you won't have a choice."

He was tired, he needed sleep. But the Stone was there, right there in the church. Sleep was the last thing on his mind.

Reaching the statue, he placed his hands on the smooth silk cloth covering the length of the altar. "So you'll give me my brother back." His weight sagged against the altar. "I just want my brother back, you sonuvabitch," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Give him back."

The chapel was silent.


End file.
